


The Glorious Ballads of Julianna Adela Pankratz, Viscountess de Lettenhove aka the Great Bard Jaskier

by Theladyknight23



Series: Shining Stanzas [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/F, Female Geralt - Freeform, Female Jaskier, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Genderbend, Geralt is the poor witcher who gets stuck with an overdramatic bard, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier is a burnt out grad student ready for adventure, Slow Burn, With Monsters, little bit of canon typical violence, playing fast and loose with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25944988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theladyknight23/pseuds/Theladyknight23
Summary: Two weeks out of Oxenfurt and all that Jaskier had seen and discovered was that not all crowds loved her and that walking was decidedly less fun when you had to do it for hours at a time. The promises of wild adventures worthy of grand ballads that had enticed her from her cozy academic life had failed to manifest thus far. But this—this Witcher was the ticket she needed.“Mistress Witcher!” she shouted, gathering up her lute and bag and racing for the door. “Wait for me!”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Shining Stanzas [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1887478
Comments: 35
Kudos: 151





	1. Chapter 1

Julianna Adela Pankratz, Viscountess de Lettenhove looked out over the assembled afternoon crowd and grinned. It wasn’t an incredible turn out, and most patrons of the small tavern looked exhausted from the fields or travel. One couldn’t expect too prosperous a crowd this far into the country. But she could work with this.

It had been approximately a fortnight since she had stared down at the teaching schedule compiled by the university in Oxenfurt, and realized she was contemplating flipping the table. She loved learning, adored it, and had oh so gleefully left the family estate to plunge into her studies. Oxenfurt was full of students just as eager to debate, drink and have sex, in that order or sometimes an interesting combination of the three. Her nights were rowdy and full of song, and her mornings depended on copious amounts of caffeine, but her teachers adored her when she turned the winning Julianna grin on them. And her music—oh her music was good, and she knew it. She was the jewel of the university, and was not about to let anyone forget it. It was at Oxenfurt that she shed her old persona, of the obnoxious and overlooked viscountess, and took up a new mantle.

“Jaskier? Really?” Pris had asked.

“Yep. I like it.” Jaskier had smirked, “what do you bet I can get that man over at the bar to come home with me?”

“Buttercup?” Pris sighed.

Jaskier grinned wolfishly and sauntered up to the bar.

Needless to say she loved Oxenfurt, the school, everything. But the idea of spending another term bent over the books made her want to scream. Feral screaming. Theory was fine, and she liked to debate the finer intricacies of composition as much as the next person, but after years spent bouncing around the boundaries of the city, she was ready for something more. She wanted to leap into the maw of life, to experience everything, to see everything, and set it down in song. And she would laugh, attack and/or swear profusely in the face of anyone who thought her foolish (cough, Valdo, cough). So she packed up her lute, too much clothing, a random assortment of supplies, and set off in a pair of shoes that frankly where not meant for this kind of travel.

Two weeks later and she had learned much. It turned out crowds outside of Oxenfurt that weren’t comprised of intoxicated students didn’t always appreciate the pluckings of a bard. The grand plan to live on her earnings didn’t look so lovely when one’s earnings comprised of a thin handful of coins and watery gruel. But still she continued. She would show them all, she would be the greatest bard to ever grace a crowd. And a crowd was a crowd no matter where she went, and applause rang like silver in her ears, even when it was offered half-heartedly by weary patrons in some backwater hole in the wall.

This crowd, in this particular tavern, showed their appreciation at the end of her selection of songs by pelting her with hunks of bread. Clearly they did not know the sounds of a master bard when they heard one. Jaskier caught as many pieces as she could before they hit the ground, and lacking pockets in the lovely blue gown she had selected for the day, stuffed the bread down her front. Not one of her finer moments, but food was food. It was mid-stuff that Jaskier spotted her. Hunched over at the table in the far corner, glaring down at her ale, was the most beautiful being Jaskier had ever seen. She had sharp features and broad shoulders, her silver white hair stark against the black, worn leather of her armour. Jaskier could practically feel the brooding energy emanating off the woman from across the room. This was clearly someone who wanted to drink her ale in peace and then disappear into the woods. Jaskier grinned, withdrawing her hand from her chemise to snag a drink from the tray of a passing barmaid. Drink in hand, Jaskier sauntered over to the woman in the corner. She had always loved a challenge.

“I love the way you just…sit in the corner and brood,” Jaskier declared, gesturing down at the woman.

The woman grunted in response, not looking up from her drink. That was enough of an invitation for Jaskier. Smiling, Jaskier slid down into the stool across from the woman, settling her lute beside her, and eagerly leaned forward.

“Everyone else here has made their thoughts on my performance clear. Come on, don’t want to keep a woman with…bread in her chemise waiting. Give me your thoughts, three words or less.”

The woman looked up and fixed Jaskier with gleaming golden eyes. Jaskier may or may not have felt her heart stop for a moment. These eyes, set in this face like finely cut marble, were the eyes of a predator glaring down at its prey. They were uncanny, unsetting and glorious. Jaskier wanted to simultaneously get closer, run for the hills and pen a thousand songs in their honour.

She settled for taking a drink to give herself a moment.

“They don’t exist,” said the woman suddenly.

“What?” Jaskier said. This was not quite the review she was looking for.

“The creatures in your song.”

Jaskier surveyed the woman. And, as it was wont to do, her tongue began to run ahead of her.

“How would you know? Oh Fun…big, loner, two very…very scary looking swords. I know who you are.” She had heard tales of the Witcher in Lettenhove as a child, and particularly graphic renditions of the same tales at Oxenfurt. “You’re the Witcher, Geralt of Riva. Called it.”

Jaskier hadn’t realized that the Geralt of the stories was a woman. Mind you, she hadn’t realized that Witchers were human. Or human-like. Those eyes were decidedly inhuman.

Moments later a man was at their table, demanding the services of the Witcher, and Geralt was striding out the door without a backwards glance.

Two weeks out of Oxenfurt and all that Jaskier had seen and discovered was that not all crowds loved her and that walking was decidedly less fun when you had to do it for hours at a time. The promises of wild adventures worthy of grand ballads that had enticed her from her cozy academic life had failed to manifest thus far. But this—this Witcher was the ticket she needed.

“Mistress Witcher!” she shouted, gathering up her lute and bag and racing for the door. “Wait for me!”

A firm punch to her stomach, a small shouting match with Jaskier declaring her talents, swearing to reform the Witcher’s image, and they were off, Jaskier trailing behind on foot as Geralt rode directly ahead.

“Do you think the fine mount of such a noble Witcher would deign to carry my bag?” Jaskier called forward.

“Don’t touch Roach,” growled Geralt, and urged the horse onward. 

Jaskier grinned, plucking the beginnings of a song on her lute. This was going to be an adventure indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where I apologize for being very new here and kind of making it up as I go along. I was in the middle of reading a book for my comps list and was seized with a need to write the overdramatic thoughts of Jaskier immediately.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt doesn't provide enough details for Jaskier's ballads, so Jaskier takes things into her own hands.

It had been five days, and Jaskier still wasn’t quite sure what to make of the Witcher. Geralt seemed to loathe music, talking and emotions in general, and yet she didn’t stop Jaskier from following along. Staring down at the oozing head of Kikimore, deposited in the dirt before a town alderman, Jaskier was struck by the fact that a punch to the gut was the very least of what the Witcher was capable of. Jaskier decided that this meant, in a somewhat twisted, witchery way, that Geralt didn’t despise her that much. Regardless of the fact that Geralt had already informed Jaskier sharply that she only killed monsters. Bards playing in the middle of the night when the inspiration struck might be considered monstrous in certain circles, particularly when a Witcher had been up for the better part of two days. In Jaskier’s defence, she hadn’t been aware of just how powerful a Witcher’s hearing was, or just how sleep-deprived said Witcher was. It had been an educational experience on all fronts. Jaskier had learned not to sing when the Witcher was attempting to sleep, and Geralt had learned that Jaskier really would continue to shriek if her lute was torn from her by an irritated Witcher until said lute was returned unharmed.

Acceptable hours of playing were only the least of what Jaskier had learned. Roach was off-limits, both by Geralt’s decree and the mare’s temperament. Jaskier was not to touch any of Geralt’s potions, belongings or general person. This last rule quickly became the hardest for Jaskier to follow. Staring at the silver white hair, roughly twisted up and tied away with plain bands, Jaskier was often overcome with an urge to brush the tangles away and braid the long locks. She had even tried broaching the subject once, arguing that a tightly braided coil would be safer when facing down monsters. The glare she received spoke volumes, and Jaskier quickly let the subject drop. That didn’t stop her from imagining a deep blue ribbon coiled through a long white braid, dotted with flowers. A girl could dream.

Jaskier also learned that Geralt allowed her to join her travels, as long as she kept up. Which was frankly ridiculous, as Jaskier didn’t actually have a horse. Jaskier made do with walking behind Roach and complaining loudly and emphatically about her shoes, the ground, the incline, or the air quality when she needed to stop. Geralt, to her amazement, seemed to keep an ear open for such complaints, and actually deigned to stop when it truly sounded like Jaskier was about to flop down on to the dusty road, her lovely red dress be damned. Geralt also kept Roach at a speed which was almost humanly possible, saying nothing about the added delay of being forced to keep pace with a bard. Mind you, Jaskier thought, Geralt didn’t say much of anything.

And that was part of the problem.

It had been five days, and Geralt had already faced down a Kikimore and some kind of bog monster Geralt refused to comment upon. Both times, they had arrived at the village, seen the posting, met with the alderman, and Geralt would deposit Jaskier at what passed for a local tavern before heading out. She would return hours later, a souvenir of the creature in hand, demand payment, and find Jaskier again. Jaskier would pester her with questions, which would be answered with an assortment of grunts, hums and, if Jaskier was lucky, monosyllabic words. Jaskier would eventually give in, and watch as Geralt inhaled a massive amount of food. After the encounter with the bog creature, the food and ale were quickly followed by a bath. Jaskier lay back on the bed, listening to the gurgle of water as the Witcher washed behind a dividing screen. The urge to clean and braid the Geralt’s hair had been particularly overpowering then. Jaskier made do with absentmindedly twisting her own auburn hair up into braids, finishing the twist off with a bold yellow ribbon.

Geralt said nothing when she emerged from the bath to see Jaskier sitting there, but Jaskier could practically feel her golden eyes lingering on the ribbon.

Five days of traveling with Geralt and it was becoming clear that if Jaskier wanted real information about the monsters, the true and gory details, she would have to collect them herself. She couldn’t craft great ballads with table scraps.

The next time they arrived at a village, a tiny scrap of a place, they were met almost immediately by two men. Jaskier was already familiar with the reputation of the Witcher. Hated and feared, most humans despised Witchers for how much they required their services. And Geralt, of course, was not simply any Witcher. As the Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt had picked up her own particularly dreaded infamy. They had been met by an assortment of glares, sneers, and angry words at the various villages they had passed through. On one memorable occasion, Jaskier had come close to fisticuffs with an arrogant prick who refused to serve Geralt. Geralt had actually been forced to hold Jaskier back, one arm circling her waist, as Jaskier struggled to free herself.

“Let me at that asshole! Geralt!”

Geralt had only grumbled and pulled Jaskier away. Jaskier gave in when she truly processed the feeling of the Witcher’s muscular arm, warm around her. Hopefully, with Jaskier’s back to the Witcher, Geralt couldn’t make out the full crimson blush that spread across her cheeks.

Jaskier spent the rest of the afternoon composing a vicious song filled with expletives, telling, in great detail, a certain pig-faced tavern keeper exactly where he could stuff it. Geralt said nothing, but Jaskier could have sworn she held herself just a little less stiffly on Roach’s back. Jaskier had decided there and then that her larger project of fame, fortune, and composing the greatest ballad sequence of all time, would also have to include redeeming the name of the great Witcher, Geralt of Riva.

So when they were met with two men moments after setting foot in the village, Jaskier couldn’t help but tense up. She wet her lips, preparing to launch into a thorough assault of the men’s mothers, partners, wardrobes, and life choices. But these men were not there to turn them away.

“Please Witcher,” the first, an elderly man entreated. “We desperately need your services.”

“We’ve taken up a collection,” continued the second, a youth barely into his beard.

Geralt swung off Roach, and listened patiently as the two haltingly described a great beast in the woods that had been emerging regularly for weeks to pick off livestock. The previous day, the beast had taken a young boy instead.

Geralt frowned when the men told of the boy’s screams as he was torn away from the field, where he had been tending to the sheep with his father. She turned her sharp, blazing golden eyes to the forest.

“I’ll take the job,” she said. “I’ll take the payment when I return.”

The men hurried off, back to the safety of their homes. Geralt turned to Jaskier.

“Doesn’t look like there will be much of a crowd at the tavern” she said, tying Roach’s reins off on a post and shouldering her pack.

“That’s okay. You know me, I’ll just hang about until you return all sweaty and covered in monster guts.”

Geralt fixed Jaskier with her stare, the kind of look that made Jaskier’s knees go a little weak and her heart beat a little faster. “Stay close to the buildings. I’ll be back soon.”

Jaskier nodded mutely and watched silently as Geralt walked away. She had heard that Witchers were supposedly good at smelling lies, but in her haste to slay this particular beast, Geralt didn’t seem to catch Jaskier’s true intentions. And really, she did plan on ‘hanging around’, just not in this village. She had made a scheme and she would stick with it.

“Off to have my own adventure, don’t wait up.” She said brightly to Roach, whose beady black eyes offered the horse equivalent of her mistress’s glare. “Everyone’s a critic,” declared Jaskier, flipping a hand back to the horse with a rude gesture as she walked away.

Jaskier did not entertain any illusions of her fighting prowess. She had the basic idea of how a sword was used, and a small dagger slung at her side that she largely used for prising open walnuts. Strictly speaking, fighting was not exactly thought suitable for a viscountess. But that didn’t matter, as Jaskier had no intention of actually getting close enough to need to use her dagger. She would just get close enough to see the details, to get a feel of how such fights go down. And if all this could happen without the Witcher catching on, all the better.

As with most of Jaskier’s grand schemes, this one collapsed almost as quickly as it began.

Traipsing about in the woods was not easy in her dress, and Jaskier quickly began to long for trousers like Geralt. And then she started to think about Geralt’s trousers and Geralt’s legs in those trousers.

Jaskier forced her mind back on the task at hand, humming a dry song about a long-dead king under her breath. Hitching up her skirts, she gathered them in one hand, while her other hand steadied the lute strap across her chest. With her ankles exposed it was faster going. Jaskier only had a vague idea of the direction Geralt had taken, so speed was of the essence. She didn’t want to miss the fight.

Jaskier hurried through the forest, stopping herself just in time before tumbling into a clearing. Peering through the branches, she could see Geralt standing on one side of the clearing, silver sword held high, snarling. Geralt’s golden eyes were black, her face pale. Jaskier would have to ask her more about that later. On the other side of the clearing was a creature unlike one she had ever seen. If her knees hadn’t been locked in fear she would have collapsed. As it was, Jaskier frantically grabbed at the trunk of a nearby tree to steady herself. This was truly a monster, and suddenly her desire to be ‘swallowed by the maw of life’ had taken on particularly horrifying connotations. What were life experiences but firm reminders that she needed to think through her metaphors more?

The creature was sickly grey, and massive, with dozen of necks emerging from a long, thick torso. At the end of those necks was a collection of hissing jaws and snapping teeth. The creature was held up by hundreds of sharp, hard legs. The beast looked like an unholy combination of a beetle, a wyvern, and many, many pissed off dogs.

Jaskier was split between the desire to scream, swear, run away, and to figure out how to set this to music. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ chanted her mind. _What’s a good rhyme scheme for ‘absolutely horrifying creature of hell”?_

Jaskier’s ensuing panic attack was brought to a sudden halt when she caught the soft cry amongst the beast’s jagged shrieks. Looking to Geralt, it was clear that the Witcher, with her enhanced senses, had also heard the cry. But Geralt was currently occupied attempting to slice her way through the snapping necks, the creature preventing her every attempt to get around it, towards the source of the cry.

If Geralt couldn’t get to the boy, she would have to. Jaskier began to creep around the clearing, eyes and ears intent on the beast and Geralt. At one point, a waving neck thudded into the trees above Jaskier, and Jaskier was forced to drop suddenly to the earth, heart beating even faster. After a long moment, and the wet sound of Geralt hacking through that particular neck, Jaskier forced herself up.

When she finally made it around the back of the clearing, she found a nest of branches and thick, white webbing. Swallowing her revulsion, she clamored inside. It was clear that she would be forced to burn this particular dress. Sitting inside the nest, shaking with fear, was a young boy, somewhere between the ages of three and five. He was pale and exhausted, his little eyes bloodshot. He was covered in lingering strands of webbing, but he seemed physically unharmed, though she could only imagine the mental effects of all of this. In the other corner was a massive egg, also covered in the webbing, and trembling slightly. Drawing her dagger, Jaskier stabbed wildly through the soft shell, until she was sure the contents were dead. Shaking slightly, Jaskier straightened, whipping her goopy hands on her dress, and turned to the little boy.

“Hello there,” whispered Jaskier.

Jaskier stepped forward slowly, hands held out before her.

“My name is Jaskier. What’s yours?”

“Haden,” the boy whispered in reply, voice hoarse.

Mindful of the lute strung across her back, Jaskier carefully collected the boy up in her arms.

“Let’s get you out of here little sprout.”

Haden tight in her grip, Jaskier stumbled her way out of the nest, her dress catching on the twigs before ripping free. She really would be forced to burn this dress.

They were a few steps away from the nest, quickly making their way back into the woods, when Haden, nestled at her throat, gave a sudden cry.

A beat later Jaskier heard and saw it too, the snarling of one of the snouts of the beast, turned to glare at the bard in the periwinkle blue dress, lute strapped to her back, a small child in her arms. Jaskier was filled with a desire to also give her own cry. A wail. Or perhaps a nice string of curses.

“Jaskier!? What the fuck?!” screamed Geralt, sprinting into view, sword waving.

“Geralt! Help!” Jaskier shrieked. Hefting Haden tightly up in her arms, she raced away.

“Fuck,” spat the Witcher.

Jaskier could hear the sounds of the struggle as she ran. A stronger bard might have stayed to help, a bard more predisposed to fighting and less inclined to living. It was becoming clear that Jaskier was not that bard. She did stop when she judged them far enough away for the boy’s safety, and that was bravery enough for the day.

Gazing through the trees, Jaskier and Haden watched as Geralt ducked and weaved around the creature. It quickly became clear that Jaskier’s sudden appearance had shaken up Geralt’s planned attack, yet she was clearly pressing the creature’s distraction to her advantage. Geralt ducked closer to the creature’s torso, and one of the sharp, deadly pointed legs shot down, tearing through Geralt’s armor and cutting deeply into her shoulder.

“Fuck!” growled the Witcher. Fighting through the pain, she slammed her sword through the beast’s torso, slicing through its hide, and tearing her way up through its body to split the beast almost asunder.

It was at about that point that Jaskier realized she probably should be covering Haden’s eyes. Humming a jaunty tune that belied her own frantically beating heart, and pressing the boy’s face into her shoulder, Jaskier hurried back into the dreaded clearing.

Geralt was standing alone above the carcass of the beast, blood streaming down the tear in her shoulder. Geralt turned her black, inky glare on Jaskier, and Jaskier almost missed her step.

“Hello Geralt.” She managed, giving a weak little wave. 

“What the fuck,” snarled Geralt. “Are you doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please enjoy/excuse my attempts at creating a (completely non-canonical) horrifying creature.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the aftermath

“I saved the boy,” offered Jaskier weakly.

Geralt’s dark eyes lingered on the child for a moment, causing Haden to give a soft yelp of fear, before turning their full attention back on Jaskier.

“What. The fuck. Are you doing here.” She growled again.

“I-I followed you. Wanted to get the inside perspective on this monster slaying business for myself. Well perspective gained, won’t be doing this again.”

Geralt hummed angrily and strode forward.

“You don’t look so good there Witcher, perhaps you should sit down for a moment,” said Jaskier, her voice squeaking high. She forced herself to stay in position as the Witcher approached. Geralt halted directly in front of Jaskier and glared down. Jaskier was really only a head or so shorter, but Jaskier had never felt so small facing down the seething Witcher. Up close, her bloody shoulder looked particularly nasty, the gory cut dripping down her black, silver-studded armor. Geralt hid her pain, but Jaskier could see the tight clench of her jaw.

“I was going to get to the boy.” She snarled.

“There was some sort of beastly egg thing in the nest with Haden that looked about to crack. I stabbed it,” offered Jaskier. In her arms, the boy, overwhelmed by everything—the dead corpse, the angry Witcher—began to cry.

Geralt’s grimace curved into a softer frown. She marched away, moving around the dead beast, and jumping up inside the nest. Jaskier rubbed her hand over Haden’s back in a movement that she hoped was comforting. They could hear the wet thudding, as Geralt drove her sword repeatedly into the egg. Jaskier wanted to point out again that she had already done that, but she held her tongue.

When Geralt returned, her sword was dripping with blood and the pale yellowish gunk from inside the egg. Jaskier mutely offered up her own tattered and stained dress as a wipe, and Geralt accepted with a grunt.

“Should we do something about your shoulder?” asked Jaskier.

Geralt shook her head sharply and slung her bag up on her good shoulder. “We need to get the boy back.” She started walking without a backward glance, knowing Jaskier would follow.

Jaskier watched for a moment. “Well, Witchers aren’t known for mincing words.” She sighed. 

“I am in desperate need of a good drink and we both need a bath. Let’s get you home sprout.”

Haden’s father, mother, and siblings were understandably excited to see the boy back safe and sound. Geralt stood stiffly before them, eyes now returned to their golden ember. Geralt was clearly emanating discomfort, as the mother, who introduced herself as Anya, thanked the Witcher with tears streaming down her face. 

“You must come in! We’ll have a bath set out for you both and fresh clothing. You must stay with us for the night.” Anya declared, already waving one hand briskly at her daughters while her other hand remained coiled tightly around Haden.

Jaskier opened her mouth to say how thankful they would be for such comforts. Before she could get the words out Geralt was speaking.

“We will not intrude.”

“It’s no intrusion—”

“We can bed down in the barn. We will be out of your way by morning.” With a final nod and the faintest hint of a smile in Haden’s direction, Geralt walked away.

Jaskier turned to their enthusiastic, now confused, hosts, and pasted on a winning smile.

“The Witcher and I thank you ardently for your hospitality, but the Witcher needs space to recuperate in private. If you could have several buckets of warm water, cloths, and a change of clothes sent out to the barn, we’d be most obliged.”

Anya nodded. “I’ll have one of my girls bring you out everything you need.”

“If one of you could also take the time to fetch the Witcher’s noble steed and our supplies—”

“My husband will see to it right away.”

“Thank you, mistress,” said Jaskier, offering an elaborate curtsey that brought a grin to the faces of the assembled children.

Jaskier kept the bright smile firmly on her face as she walked over to the barn. With every step, she thought bitterly of the promised hot baths and soft beds. She’d faced down a monstrous creature from the pits of hell, a Witcher’s wrath, and saved a small child. Surely that merited a proper bath?

Geralt was already inside the barn when Jaskier arrived, slumped down against a post on the far side, eyes intent on the open door.

“Well that was rude,” said Jaskier, surveying the Witcher with her hands on her hips.

“I knew you would talk enough for both of us,” grumbled Geralt.

Then she seemed to remember what had just happened, and the deep scowl returned to her face.

“That was idiotic and reckless. You and that child could have been killed.”

Jaskier’s hands twisted into folds of her disgusting dress, struggling beneath Geralt’s piercing gaze. “I know. If it makes you feel better there will not be a repeat as I have definitely used up my quota of reckless bravery. I will be most content with hearing about your fights from you in the future.”

Geralt hummed sharply in response. Jaskier attempted a weak grin. All told, this conversation could be going much worse.

They stayed that way for a moment, locked in an awkward and deeply uncomfortable staring competition before the sounds of the approaching Roach caught their attention, and Jaskier hurried forward to meet them. Taking the reins from Haden’s father, Jaskier led Roach into the barn, carefully mindful of the horse’s teeth.

The barn was once again thrown into stiff silence. Taking a deep breath, Jaskier tore through the quiet. “Do you want me to help you with your shoulder?”

“Yes,” said Geralt stiffly.

Jaskier approached cautiously. “One very interesting fact about me,” she said, staring down at the bloody tear across Geralt’s shoulder, “is that I actually don’t have any medical training.”

“Jaskier” growled Geralt, “just get my fucking bag.”

“Right.”

Jaskier could speak several languages, compose a ballad with little effort, do mental arithmetic with slightly more effort, but in all her years she had never encountered blood at this scale. She could probably weave a menstruation joke out of this, her mind supplied, but quickly dismissed the idea. Now didn’t really seem like the time or place. Particularly with Geralt looking like she was about to bite someone’s head off.

Geralt’s bag of potions and Witcher-y supplies was still slung over Roach’s back. Jaskier retrieved it and brought it over to the Witcher, who efficiently searched the bag, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her brow. While Geralt downed one of her potions, Jaskier fetched the buckets of warm water and cloths set just outside the door.

“Help me get this off,” said Geralt.

Jaskier swallowed and hurried to comply. Kneeling close enough to the Witcher to feel her hot breath, Jaskier loosened the straps with fingers quick and calloused from years of music. Easing the leather armor off, she moved on to the undertunic. The tunic was wet with blood and sweat, clinging to the wound.

“Right, so this might hurt a bit,” murmured Jaskier, and drew the tunic over Geralt’s shoulders, pretending she did not hear the Witcher’s pained intake of breath when the fabric tore away from the gash. The remaining breast band was equally bloody, the strap on the left side cut away. Jaskier decided, for the sake of her own burning cheeks, to leave the band in place for now.

Jaskier rolled up her sleeves, wet one of the rough-looking cloths, and set to work cleaning away the worst of the blood from the wound. Geralt said nothing as she worked, fists clenched and eyes firmly set somewhere over Jaskier’s shoulder. Already her potion seemed to be working, easing the pained tightness of her jaw.

“I don’t think this will need stitches,” said Jaskier when she finished. She took Geralt’s responding hum as confirmation and stretched a bandage from Geralt’s bags over the gash. Hopefully, that would do it.

A soft call from the door caught Jaskier’s attention, as Geralt, perilously close, said “Clothes” beside Jaskier’s ear, sending a delicious shiver trembling down Jaskier’s back. Jaskier grinned and hurried to her feet. Only the promise of a clean dress could rouse her from the exhausted stupor that was slowly setting in. 

The child, a girl of about fourteen, was carrying both an armful of clean clothing and two steaming bowls of stew.

“I have not ever smelt such marvelous delicacies!” she proclaimed, taking the bowls from the girl. “And clean clothes! We are truly most blessed by your fine welcome.”

A blush lit across the girl’s face. She dropped into a rough curtsey and frantically scampered away.

Geralt raised a weary eyebrow at Jaskier, and Jaskier grinned. 

Depositing the bowls with the Witcher, Jaskier retreated to a dark corner to change into the dress. It was rough and made of a flaxen cloth a far cry from her beloved periwinkle blue gown. Likely one of Anya’s, a dress made for days of work and hard washing. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and it was too dark for anyone to notice if her dress failed to bring out the colour of her eyes. Changed, Jaskier slumped to the earth beside Geralt and used the remaining bucket and clean cloth to give herself a rough bucket bath. She let out a delighted huff of laughter as the warm water rubbed away the sticky residue left by Haden’s tiny hands. Jaskier pretended she did not notice the way the Witcher’s eyes followed her, lingering on her exposed collar bone as she scrubbed away the last of the webbing, though she couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

Geralt had managed to get a clean shirt over her shoulder, which was frankly disappointing, as it covered up her highly impressive muscles that Jaskier had been planning on admiring further.

They ate together, Jaskier prodding Geralt every few bites for more information about the creature, and Geralt largely responding in grunts. When Jaskier grew full she offered the rest of her stew to the Witcher, who took it gratefully, with something that could almost—almost—be described as a smile. If one was an optimist. And Jaskier decidedly was.

Patched up and fed, Geralt rose to attend to Roach, while Jaskier idly plucked away at her lute. The attention and care Geralt offered her mare was clear even from a distance, a reassuring hand lingering on Roach’s withers as she removed the tack and rubbed Roach down. Standing by the door, lit with the cool gleam of the moon and the golden light cast by the lantern, Geralt reminded Jaskier for all the world of her silver sword. Tangled silver-white hair looking almost artfully tousled as it tumbled down her stiff back, the Witcher stood as a steady and reassuring presence. Jaskier wasn’t quite sure where along the way the Butcher had become a familiar, reassuring figure. Somewhere between the punch in the gut and the wild anger in her eyes when she saw Jaskier in danger. Jaskier wouldn’t go so far as to describe her grunts and hums as musical or poetic—but there was something in those blunt growls that felt warm. Well Jaskier’s words, fists, and heart had a way of running ahead of her common sense.

Geralt finished with Roach and settled back down beside Jaskier. Jaskier took a risk and leaned her head back on Geralt’s uninjured shoulder. Geralt said nothing, but Jaskier could feel the small shift of muscles as Geralt tensed up. But after a beat, this tension eased.

“I’m glad you didn’t die,” said Geralt suddenly.

Jaskier laughed, bright and loud. “Honestly me too.”

“Never do that again.” Geralt gently rested a hand on Jaskier’s side for a moment, before dropping it away as if burned.

Jaskier promised, thinking of the warmth at her back, and the lingering warm touch at her side.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt gets a hair cut

“You really are a feral bastard, aren’t you,” said Geralt.

Jaskier grinned, wide and toothy.

They were on the road again, having quickly departed the latest tavern. This was not, surprisingly enough, due to Geralt, whose general persona radiated unfriendly, moody vibes, and whose status as a Witcher found them tossed out of many an establishment. No, this particular eviction was entirely due to Jaskier. She had been sitting at a table with Geralt, minding her own business while waiting for the piss-poor local excuse for a minstrel to finish their set so she could go up and show all these ruffians what real music was—when she caught the sounds of a man the next table over insulting both Geralt and her ‘toss a coin’ song in one breath. It became immediately clear to Jaskier that the best course of action was to throw herself bodily at the man while screaming, and work away at jabbing her fingers into his eyes. She had gotten used to hearing people snub Witchers. It was an entirely different thing to say her song “sounded like horseshit.” Whatever that was supposed to mean.

Geralt, who had definitely also heard the man, but was steadfastly ignoring him in favor of brooding over her ale, waited a beat too long to catch Jaskier. It was only when the shouting reached a fervor pitch, and the man’s mates started getting involved, that Geralt rose from her seat and silently extracted Jaskier from the fray. Her sharp eyes and the twin swords on her back were enough to send the rest of the group scrambling. This delayed response, Jaskier surmised later, was because the Witcher had also longed for the opportunity to go truly ape shit on the man, but was too good to show it. Well Jaskier could go wild on the human monsters for the both of them. Since her encounter with the fearsome creature from the pits of hell, Jaskier had gladly embraced her role of waiting patiently for Geralt to return from the safety of the nearest pub. She would play, attempt to make some coin or offer performances in lieu of room and board, and arrange a bath for Geralt to return to. Jaskier’s horror at actual real live monsters did not extend to human pigs, however, and she found a brawl every once in a while was a good way to let off steam and get the creative juices flowing. And Geralt, despite her grumbling, would always be there to pull Jaskier back from a fight, cast disapproving and disappointed glares down at her, and then smear cream on her scrapes when they stopped for the day. It was, all told, not a terrible system, though the scrapes, life on the road and the encounter with the hellish beast were doing horrors for Jaskier’s wardrobe.

The rough brawl on this occasion had left Jaskier with a small cut above her left eye, and what definitely felt like the beginnings of a bruise spreading across her right side. The blood gushing from the scrape belied how small it really was, and Jaskier was keeping firm pressure on it with one of her last remaining handkerchiefs. Geralt said nothing about the cut, but Jaskier continually caught her gaze lingering on Jaskier’s head, a tight frown on her face. For her part, Jaskier was just annoyed that she had ended up with a cut on her face. Her face was, after all, one of her important bardic features, after her lovely singing voice and winning personality. It was times like this, when her innate vanity clashed with her rage, that Jaskier lamented the fact that she had been born a bard. But a bard she had been born to be, and if her mother hadn’t managed to squash her dreams of music, then a simple cut (and her tendency to get in such fights) was nothing.

Geralt called a halt for the day far sooner then Jaskier had expected. The bleeding of her scrape had only just slowed to a small trickle, and her feet weren’t even properly tired yet. Jaskier, however, was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Swinging down off of Roach, Geralt nodded towards a large rock. “Sit.”

Jaskier sat.

Geralt took the sodden handkerchief from Jaskier, frowned, and deposited it on the ground. From her bags, she drew a bottle of some liquid which she poured over a clean cloth.

“That’s not some kind of weird Witcher potion is it?” asked Jaskier.

“No.”

“Right. Care to tell me what it is then?”

Jaskier could practically hear Geralt’s eye roll. “It’s an antiseptic to clean the wound. And then we will bandage it.”

“Ugh. That won’t look very nice,” sighed Jaskier.

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you attacked someone twice your size, bard.”

Geralt began to gently press the antiseptic soaked cloth over Jaskier’s cut, her hands soft and certain.

“He was asking for it,” said Jaskier, her trembling, singing heart all too aware of the Witcher’s close proximity. Geralt’s hands stilled at Jaskier’s words, settling for a moment on Jaskier’s head, one caught up in her hair. Jaskier resisted the urge to lean into her touch with much difficulty.

“Geralt?” she said softly after the moment stretched.

“You don’t need to fight for me.”

“I know.”

“Then why?” One of Geralt’s fingers began to trace soft circles on Jaskier’s forehead.

“Because I hate bullies, because he smelled, because he insulted my music. And because—” her voice halted in a rare moment of self-preservation, but Jaskier quickly barrelled on. “Because he insulted you, dear Witcher. And that’s not fair.”

Jaskier’s words hung in the air for a moment. There were quite a few ways this could go now. Jaskier imagined they ranged from passionate kissing to shocked horror to arguing. What she did not expect was for Geralt to carefully and efficiently apply the bandage around Jaskier’s head, before mumbling something about hunting, and disappearing into the woods. Jaskier was left sitting on the rock in confused shock.

“Well. That was something,” she offered to Roach, who flared her nostrils and turned away. “I really am a very lovely person you know!” called Jaskier, “A talented bard and wonderful in bed. People throw themselves at my feet in Oxenfurt, and my music and name will echo for centuries to come! You, my dear horse, are lucky to know me!” Roach only continued to turn, until Jaskier was presented with a nice view of her ass.

Jaskier sighed and gave a mighty groan. Months out of Oxenfurt, and this was the company she was choosing to keep. Irritable horses and Witchers—Witchers who ran for the hills at the slightest provocation.

By the time Geralt returned hours later, two fat rabbits in hand, Jaskier had largely let out her bent up energy by stomping about the clearing and loudly playing extended ballads, much to Roach’s distain.

Geralt said nothing, only settled by the fire Jaskier had managed to start, and quickly skinned the rabbits, setting them to cook on the embers. The meal that night was one of the quietest they had ever had, with Jaskier holding her tongue for once. There was a great deal she wished to say, her mind a shrieking mess. She was certain though, gazing across the fire at Geralt, who had failed to properly look at Jaskier since her return, that saying something would do more harm than good. One had to be patient sometimes. Jaskier was perfectly capable of waiting, as much as she hated it. Geralt was worth it.

After their quiet dinner, they settled into their separate bedrolls on either side of the fire and turned in for an early night.

“Good night bard,” said a voice, so soft and quiet that Jaskier would have likely missed it if she had not been so intently fixated on the woman across the fire.

“Good night Witcher,” she said, and turned, settling in for a long and lonely night.

The next morning dawned bright and early. Just as last night, Geralt seemed reduced back to grunts and hums, and Jaskier was too full of trepidation over this fine balance to let her frenzied thoughts spill from her tongue. Geralt did inquire after the state of Jaskier’s head, humming thoughtfully when Jaskier reassured her that the worst of the pain had faded.

By mid-morning of traveling in silence, Jaskier was ready to scream. Deciding that surely a simple song wouldn’t send the Witcher and Roach racing ahead, she began to play the many bawdy verses of the Fishmonger’s daughter. Geralt said nothing until Jaskier hit the twentieth verse, describing in much detail just how the daughter would finally sate her extensive appetite, in words highly unsuited for polite company.

“Jaskier,” said Geralt, sounding as if she was praying for patience.

“Yes, dear Witcher?”

“Would silence be that difficult?”

Geralt was saved Jaskier’s extensive thoughts on when exactly silence was fitting, namely not when travelling the road with a beloved friend, when the houses of a village came into view through the trees.

Posted on the announcement board was a call to hunt down a group of drowners. Geralt seized the notice with relief. Firmly commanding Jaskier to stay, she set off on Roach.

“Right. I’ll just stay here then. In this muck hole,” said Jaskier, kicking the dirt at her feet, when she was sure Geralt was out of earshot. “Glamour and adventure indeed.”

With nothing left to do but grumble in the middle of the road, Jaskier set off to find the tavern. She was in desperate need of some attention and strong drink.

To her immense satisfaction, she managed to quickly find both. The innkeeper, a lovely plump woman by the name of Marta, happily offered to trade several hours of playing with room and a meal.

“We don’t get many bards travelling through these parts often.” She informed Jaskier, “And I do love a good song.”

Jaskier reassured her, holding her lute proudly aloft, that Marta and her patrons were in for the show of their lives.

For the next several hours that is what Jaskier delivered, channeling all her rage, confusion, and yearning into powerful soaring songs. She played the classics, the room steadily filling as word of her appearance spread. By the time she hit “toss a coin” the entire tavern was singing along to the chorus. This, thought Jaskier, riding high on applause and fizzing with adrenaline, this was what it meant to truly live.

When Geralt finally returned, Jaskier almost didn’t notice her, too caught up in her latest ballad, a request from a particularly beautiful young woman, who blushed a pleasing crimson every time Jaskier met her eyes. When she did notice Geralt, Jaskier continued as if she hadn’t, milking the song until the very end. This was petty and childish, but Jaskier had never claimed to be particularly mature. Jaskier concluded with a dramatic finish, the walls of the tavern ringing with her song. Dropping into an elaborate bow, she surveyed the crowd her music had gathered, a crowd that had swelled to fill every inch. It was only then after she had drunken her fill of her adoring public that Jaskier properly looked to Geralt.

Geralt was watching Jaskier with an odd expression on her face, one Jaskier wasn’t quite sure how to interpret. It hit her then that this may be the first time Geralt had actually taken in one of Jaskier’s better performances, seen and heard the way the audience and the bard fed on each other’s energy, swelling up to exhilarating crescendos. Once she got past Geralt’s face, she took in her companion’s muddy clothes, and the way her silver-white hair, dripping mud, now clung about her face in rough uneven hunks.

“Geralt!” Jaskier called, reaching her side. “What happened?”

“Damned drowners got my hair. Had to cut it.”

Jaskier surveyed the wreckage. “Well, you certainly cut it.”

Geralt glared, and Jaskier flashed her a sharp grin.

“Mistress Marta!” called Jaskier, “a room please, and a warm bath.”

Marta hesitated for a moment, spotting Jaskier’s companion, but her indecision was only temporary. She could hardly throw out the bard that had just set her tavern overflowing with music and coin. “First room at the top of the stairs, I’ll have one of my girls bring you the water.”

Jaskier offered her a cheery salute and began herding Geralt, taking great care to avoid actually touching the Witcher’s muddy form. Despite the crowd, people were quick to make way for the Witcher, and they soon made their way upstairs. Hot water followed shortly after. Geralt stood stiffly in the middle of the room as Jaskier bustled about.

“Have you any scented bath oils?” she asked the maid. Geralt didn’t typically go for that kind of thing, but she really did stink. “And some good soap?”

The girl nodded and hurried off to fetch the supplies.

Geralt fixed Jaskier with a glare, and Jaskier smirked, sticking out her tongue in reply.

A short while later, Geralt was safety ensconced in the tub, with Jaskier reminding her to actually use the oils. There was no screen for the room, so Jaskier was reduced to staring fixedly at the opposite wall, pretending she was not acutely aware of the naked Witcher behind her. Jaskier was a fantastic performer, but this was stretching the limits of even her considerable abilities.

“Damn it. Jaskier get over here.”

Geralt held up a hunk of her hair for Jaskier’s inspection. The drowner gunk continued to cling to it, creating rough mats.

Jaskier smiled and rolled up her sleeves. A small stool tucked in the corner set her at a nice height to reach the Witcher’s hair. Seizing the bar of soap left by the maid, Jaskier gave herself a moment to admire the strong, scarred shoulders, the glimpses of pale skin beneath the soapy surface. Then she began to hum and wash, still buoyed up with her fantastic performance.

By the time she was finished, and Geralt dressed and dry in clean clothing, the damage to Geralt’s hair was clear. While the silver-white locks were no longer a greenish-brown, they were decidedly off-sided, chopped roughly.

“This looks like you cut it with your sword while pissed drunk.”

Geralt grunted.

“Fancy making a dramatic statement?”

“Just fucking cut it Jaskier.”

Jaskier laughed, bright and loud, and went to track down the maid. She returned barring a pair of fine silver scissors, which Mistress Marta used for cutting guests' hair. Jaskier relayed this information to Geralt, including the fact that Marta had offered to come and cut Geralt’s hair as well. Geralt stiffened and shook her head.

“No,” she took a breath. “I would prefer you to do it.”

Jaskier grinned. Geralt actually met her eyes for a moment, a faint whisper of a smile trailing across her own face.

“How short then? I should warn you that I only have a theoretical knowledge about how one actually goes about cutting hair.”

“Short,” said Geralt. “Sick of creatures grabbing it.” 

Jaskier nodded. She allowed herself a moment to trace her fingers through the soft silver locks, all in preparation, she told herself, for the cutting of hair. Geralt said nothing, but Jaskier could have sworn she heard the faintest sighs of relief. That soft sound, a sound offered by the Witcher in this moment of trust, of quiet care, set Jaskier’s heart leaping to fantastic heights.

This was the joy she chased in the tavern, the feeling of exhilaration and delight she attempted to bring to her listeners. Adventure. The unknown. Cheering amongst a crowd of strangers, united in song. The familiar glow of a family hearth, a mother murmuring soft lullabies, holding you close as you slowly fell asleep. 

Humming the song pounding in her heart, Jaskier set to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's about the yearning
> 
> Geralt's haircut was inspired by [ this absolutely incredible art by daryshkart ](https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/post/612782978133835776/finished-my-girls-geralt-and-jaskier-au-xena)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for violence, death and a brief panic attack (see endnotes for more info).

Jaskier managed, if she did say so herself, pretty well on Geralt’s hair.

Cropped close at the sides, with just a bit more length on the top, it looked good on Geralt’s angular face.

“You have such lovely cheekbones,” mused Jaskier, as she checked to make sure the sides were even. Geralt said nothing, but when she finally assented to look at herself in one of the remaining buckets of water, Jaskier caught the small upturn of her lips, which was basically a full on grin for Geralt.

“Why haven’t you done this before?” asked Jaskier. “It looks good.”

Geralt ran a hand slowly through what was left of her hair. “Didn’t want to worry about keeping it cut,” she said absentmindedly, eyes still intent on her reflection.

“Well, you needn’t worry about that now. I’ll be around to keep your silver tresses in check.”

The look Geralt gave her then was startling close to an actual smile, and Jaskier temporarily forgot how to breathe.

“Jaskier?” asked Geralt, concerned, a crease forming between her eyebrows. Melitele help her, Jaskier wanted to soothe that worried line away. 

“Yep. Fine. We are all fine here. Just gonna go, return these scissors and get some food. Be back shortly—” Waving Geralt away, Jaskier made a hasty retreat. This was decidedly not one of her finest moments. Years of courting, of chasing skirts and trousers, and sometimes an interesting combination of both, and here she was, undone by a smile.

Jaskier collapsed for a moment against a wall outside their room, before remembering that Geralt could probably hear and smell every panicked breath. She would have to do a better job at remembering that it was no longer just her tongue betraying her. Now she could blame her poor heart as well.

With a sigh, she pushed herself off the wall and headed downstairs. She really could use a drink.

They continued travelling together, winding their way through the continent slaying beasts and writing songs. Roach continued to hate Jaskier despite her best attempts at placating her with treats and soft words. Geralt continued to offer her small soft moments, ones that felt all the more significant coming from the stiff Witcher. A hand on her back to help steady her. A bag of her favourite lemon drops procured as a surprise and offered around the campfire that night. A willingness to withstand and offer carefully considered answers to Jaskier’s insistent questioning.

On one memorable occasion, Geralt actually carried Jaskier over a stream, after Jaskier had kicked up a funk about getting her feet wet. Geralt had said nothing, simply swung down off Roach and collected Jaskier up into her arms, as if Jaskier weighted nothing. Jaskier kept her eyes firmly fixed on the horizon, though she did manage to turn back to Geralt at the end to complement her delightful muscles. Geralt, as expected, had nothing to say to that. She gaped at Jaskier for a moment before returning to Roach and riding on as if nothing had happened.

Jaskier, for her part, happily shared the coin and spoils earned at various taverns and inns with her Witcher. She kept her playing to a minimum when the lines across Geralt’s forehead suggested one of her headaches. She purchased her own silver pair of scissors and managed to refrain from actually stabbing anyone with them. And, most of all, she spent her time attempting to chase that smile, to make her Witcher laugh. She was rarely successful, but it was well worth the effort.

But the delicate balancing act they walked between lingering gazes and soft touches could be exhausting. Jaskier was too wary of sending Geralt racing for the hills to let lose any of her many thoughts on the subject, and the Witcher seemed disinclined to address the tension herself. Sometimes the urge to scream out her feelings became too overwhelming and Jaskier was left penning thinly concealed love ballads, and ranting at Roach when Geralt was far out of earshot. The tight sexual tension was not the only thing pulling Jaskier away. Her fame was growing and it was time she defended her prowess in one of the bardic competitions. Loathe as she was to leave her Witcher behind, Jaskier began to drift away for weeks at a time, following word of the brooding White Wolf when she ready to rejoin them again.

While away from Geralt, Jaskier threw herself into music, wine and fine company. She played to packed crowds, honing her craft until she could carry a room full of strangers from the highest heights of rapture to the lowest of lows, commanding the attention of every ear in the room. She restocked on dresses, replenishing her poor wardrobe with fantastic gowns in bright yellows, purples and blues. She tumbled with smiling barmaids, and men making eyes at her across the bar, and for a brief moment she found relief from the tension fizzing beneath her skin. But no matter how beautiful or willing, no partner she found on her ramblings alone was enough. She would extract herself from soft arms and creep out of the bed to hunch by windows, looking up at the moon. A moon whose silver-white surface reminded her painfully of a certain Witcher. Jaskier was fully aware of how pathetically dramatic her yearning was. So she would make her excuses, play a last rousing show, and then set to work tracking down her Witcher and that awful horse. It was only seeing Geralt’s scowling face, her golden eyes and scars, that Jaskier felt like she could properly breathe.

“Geralt!” she would sing, and Geralt would roll her eyes, and Roach would huff a disapproving snort, and all would be right in the world again.

There was one thing that her many bedfellows did help her with. Ever since that encounter with the creature, Jaskier had found herself troubled periodically by nightmares. Some nights she would peer into the nest to see Haden tossed aside like a broken doll, eyes empty. Other nights one of the snapping jaws would catch her, dragging her into the clearing before setting upon her with dozens of salivating snouts. Jaskier would wake, heart-pounding, moments before being torn apart. But the worse nights would be those when she would arrive in the clearing to find Geralt already a bloody heap, silver-white hair stained red. Or Geralt ripped apart by vicious maws or stabbed through by sharp, insectile legs. Or Geralt, distracted by Jaskier and the boy, being caught off guard and killed.

On these nightmare nights, Jaskier would wake sweaty and frantic, and seek comfort in the warm arms of her partner for the evening. She would pull closer into the embrace, shushing away any questions about her wild eyes and pounding heart. If that did not help, a long dreg from a bottle would do wonders to still her terror.

These nightmares tended to find her when she was away from the Witcher, though every once in a while one of the lesser nightmares—which largely consisted of her staring up at the beast—would seize her. Jaskier would wake, a scream trapped in her throat, and find sharp golden eyes watching her in the dark.

Geralt never said anything. Jaskier never offered. She did not need to give Geralt an opportunity to remind her just how fucking stupid she had been. If Jaskier wanted someone to berate her for her life decisions she would go talk to her mother, thank you very much.

Jaskier had been back with Geralt and Roach for about a week when they found themselves in a tiny village loud with the cawing of carrion birds. Jaskier had been idly twisting a collection of flowers she had gathered into a crown, teasing Geralt all the while that it was the Witcher’s turn to wear it. When she heard the sounds of the birds, and under them, the loud shrieks of pain, sorrow torn from the heart, Jaskier let the flowers fall to the dirt. Geralt’s jaw tightened, her mouth a firm frown.

There were a collection of bodies laid out in the centre of the village, carefully and reverentially arrayed. Groups of howling women, men and children surrounded the bodies. But even worse, were the hollow eyes and silence of those that could only stare.

Geralt immediately approached the small band of men and women, brandishing pitchforks and makeshift weapons. While Geralt assessed the situation, Jaskier found herself looking down at the bodies. There were five in all. All had sheets draped over their middles, though dark stains were slowly seeping through. Three were men, the youngest about thirty, the oldest in his late fifties. At the end of the line was arrayed a woman, with golden-brown hair fanned around her pale face. At her side was nestled a young boy, of about three. The woman seemed to be the boy’s mother, sharing his splattering of freckle and his gently upturned nose. They looked—Jaskier realized—so much like her and Haden.

The world was spinning and Jaskier couldn’t seem to get enough air into her lungs. She gasped, desperate, when a warm hand settled on her back, another on her shoulder.

“Breathe Jaskier,” said Geralt, gently in her ear.

Geralt steered her away from the bodies, away from the harsh cries of the crows and the screaming grief. She rubbed Jaskier’s back, holding her hair when Jaskier emptied her stomach into the bushes.

Geralt held her close, a steadying force until Jaskier’s tears slowed. Pulling away slightly, Geralt tilted her head, a questioning concerned look on her face.

“They—they reminded me of Haden. And me.”

Understanding flooded Geralt’s features, and she nodded, pulling Jaskier close again. They stayed like that until Jaskier’s heart had truly slowed, her breathing even. It was only then that Geralt slowly detached herself. Taking Jaskier’s hand, Geralt led her over to a woman, a heavy rolling pin slung in the sash around her waist. She was standing, thick arms crossed, a deep frown on her face as she surveyed the scene in the village centre. Geralt, who seemed to have met the woman earlier amongst the would-be fighters, efficiently arranged for the woman to take in Jaskier until her return.

“I’ll be back soon,” Geralt informed Jaskier, mouth firm but a soft glint in her eyes.

The woman pulled Jaskier inside, installing her amongst soft sheets, a mug of mulled wine in her hand, before Jaskier had a chance to fully take in what was happening. Jaskier had no intention of being seen as soft, or weak, regardless of how true those statements might be. But this care was nice. She accepted the woman’s kindness easily, quick fingers catching her mug right before the exhaustion of the day caught up to her, and Jaskier suddenly fell asleep.

When she awoke, it was to the sounds of soft conversation, the kind used when one did not wish to wake a sleeper. Jaskier smiled sleepily, stretching her arms. There may or may not have been some sort of sleeping draft in her wine, but she had needed that.

“Ready to go?” asked Geralt.

Jaskier nodded. Earnestly thanking the kind woman, Jaskier took Geralt’s arm and allowed the Witcher to lead her out to Roach. It was near night, and the bodies had been removed while Jaskier slept. Geralt took Jaskier’s bags and stuffed them into Roach’s saddlebags, carefully securing Jaskier’s lute case. They began to walk, Geralt leading Roach.

It was only when they had fully cleared the village and its surrounding fields that Jaskier cast an enquiring look to Geralt.

“I killed it.”

Jaskier nodded, for once content without all the details.

They made camp shortly after. Despite Jaskier’s long nap, she found the day still wore upon her, and she was eager to retreat to her bedroll. Geralt too was showing signs of wear, deep lines in her forehead, and a tightness around her eyes.

Jaskier gathered wood as Geralt started the fire. They contented themselves on a dinner of cold bread and cheese, eating quietly.

“Jaskier,” said Geralt suddenly. “What happened back there.”

Jaskier looked down at her feet. “It was nothing.”

“Bard.”

Jaskier exhaled slowly. “I’ve been having nightmares. About that beast.”

Geralt stiffened, her frown tight. “You should have told me.”

“Why?! So you could tell me how foolish I’d been? Don’t deny it Geralt, I know exactly what you’re about to say!”

Geralt shook her head. “You should have trusted me to help.”

“I—” Jaskier didn’t actually know what to say to that.

“There are healers to talk to. Draughts to help.”

There were tears in her eyes now, but Jaskier quickly blinked them away.

“I didn’t want you to think me stupid and weak. You spent all your days fighting monsters and I get haunted for months by my one encounter.”

“That doesn’t make you weak. You are much stronger then you think.”

Jaskier really was crying now, and she wiped at her cheeks with the palm of her hand.

“Thank you Geralt.”

The Witcher softened. “Time for bed. We have a long ride tomorrow.”

“You mean you have a long ride,” quipped Jaskier, “I’ve got a long day of looking at Roach’s ass”

“Bed, bard.”

That night, when the nightmares found her, Jaskier woke to the feeling of strong arms wrapping around her, the press of a warm body at her back.

She let out a soft sigh of relief, Geralt hummed, and they fell back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (tw: Jaskier and Geralt see numerous dead bodies, including a young woman and a boy. No description of their death. Jaskier has a brief panic attack, but Geralt quickly comforts her). 
> 
> Me: uses Jaskier's POV as an excuse to write ridiculously long run-on sentences


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a beginning

They had shared beds before. That’s what one did when the inn was full, or the coin low, or “Jaskier you are so drunk you might actually asphyxiate on your own vomit if you are left to sleep by yourself.” In these times, they would both crawl into the bed, excruciatingly aware of the closeness of the other, the thin space between their bodies. An insurmountable barrier.

In the weeks since Jaskier’s confession of nightmares, those walls had crumbled. Now when they piled into a bed, Geralt’s arms would quickly find her, drawing her close. They still weren’t talking about it—the fact that they spent their nights' cuddling, that they were now just requesting one bed. Geralt had gotten good at detecting and redirecting any of Jaskier’s attempts to actually communicate about the intricacies of their relationship. If they were on the road, Geralt would find a reason to go hunt, or some monster to slay, or some poor fellow traveller to accost.

If those options weren’t available, she was skilled at distracting Jaskier, with details on creatures quoted from memory, with requests to hear Jaskier’s latest song, or pointing out interesting landmarks. These distractions worked both because Jaskier really was frighteningly easy to distract and that Jaskier herself wasn’t quite sure she wanted to have this conversation. Maybe actually saying what they were doing would be enough to truly send her Witcher into the wilderness, never to be seen again. So they cuddled, and Geralt let Jaskier run her hands through her hair, and they decidedly did not talk about it.

They were huddled down by a campfire, with Roach grazing behind them, after a long day of slaying, singing and carrying irritable Witchers, respectively.

“Geralt. I’ve been thinking,” said Jaskier, poking her spoon into her bowl of gruel.

“What,” said Geralt, intent on her own bowl of gruel.

“We’ve never actually talked about this. But, are many Witchers women? The legends are, to be frank, pretty fucking off on a lot of things, so I’ve stopped trusting everything I’ve learned as a child and at Oxenfurt. But I’ve never heard of any women Witchers. And your name, did they give it to you?”

Geralt said nothing for a moment, still eating. It was only when she finished the bowl, setting it down beside her, that she looked over to meet Jaskier’s eyes.

“Witchers took anyone they could get.”

Looking at Jaskier’s eager face and wide blue eyes, she continued, “My mother named me. Thought I was going to be a boy. Didn’t bother to pick out another.”

Jaskier frowned.

“She gave me to the Witchers when I was a child…very few children actually make it through the trials.”

“Wow,” said Jaskier. “She sounds like a massive prick.”

Geralt let out of startled bark of laughter.

Jaskier set aside her bowl and leapt to her feet.

“A plague on shitty mothers!” shouted Jaskier, seizing her drink and raising it up to the dark night beyond their crackling fire. Downing a deep gulp, she continued, voice fierce and loud, “Let their intestines twist into knots, let their pathetic hearts seize up, let them drown in their own piss! Let their stupid fucking voices fade away to nothing! Our names will echo through history and they will be nothing! Nothing!”

Geralt duly raised her glass to join Jaskier’s passionate denunciation.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asked when Jaskier had taken her seat again.

“No.”

“Bard.”

Jaskier took a deep drink.

“Fine. Yes. I do have many thoughts about shitty mothers, but they aren’t particularly eloquent.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, encouraging her to continue.

“My mother.” Jaskier pronounced it as if the word itself felt foul on her tongue. “Is a good upstanding woman of society. She never makes mistakes. No, the only fuck up is her daughter, for actually trying to make something with her life!”

Geralt hummed sympathetically.

“She,” Jaskier’s eyes filled with tears and she blinked them away angrily. She was fucking done crying over her mother. “She never missed a chance to remind me how much of a failure I am. It took years of arguing to get her to assent to me going off to Oxenfurt, and then she filled my post with reminders of what I giant disappointment I am to the family.”

“Sounds like a bitch,” said Geralt.

Jaskier laughed, loud and bright, and if her eyes still glistened with tears than Geralt didn’t say anything.

“This calls for a song!” she shouted, and jumped to her feet again, catching up her lute. “Something roaring and dirty!”

Geralt smiled, Roach snorted, and Jaskier began plucking away, her voice carrying up over the trees.

The invitation caught up with them on the outskirts of Cintra. The offer for the great bard Jaskier to perform at the wedding feast for Princess Pavetta was clear, intoxicating proof of her fame. Jaskier was practically buzzing when she heard the news, mind filling with the best possible set of ballads to play. Summoning up her courage to ask Geralt to accompany her to into a royal palace took slightly longer then conjuring up her setlist, however. That night, after a particularly good meal purchased with the spoils of her labour, Jaskier dared to broach the subject.

“No.”

“But Geralt!”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.” She pouted.

“Fine. What?”

“I need you to come for protection, as I may or may not have angered some of the local nobility.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Fine, I fucked their wives. Or their husbands. Something like that. Really it’s not my fault if I’m incredibly gorgeous. People just can’t keep their hands off of me.”

Geralt frowned slightly.

“Uh not recently though.” Added Jaskier hastily. “Music is my only muse and love at present.”

And breathtakingly gorgeous, slightly terrifying Witchers.

Geralt scowled. “Fine.”

“Good,” said Jaskier, brightening. “Also you’ll have to wear a dress.”

The grimace that statement received was truly something.

Jaskier looked glorious in her golden gown. And Geralt—well Jaskier’s knees actually gave out when she saw her. Luckily Geralt caught her, and for a brief moment, Jaskier was held in a dip that really did not help the situation with her knees. Geralt was dressed in a silver-grey gown that beautifully complemented her hair, bringing out the golden shine of her eyes. Even the scowl plastered on her face could not distract from the way her shoulders beautifully filled out the gown, the way the low back emphasized her muscles, her strength and grace. The scars rippling down her back, as she explained to Jaskier, were from an encounter with a griffin. Jaskier was seized with an overwhelming desire to trace those scars, to follow them as they disappeared beneath the back of the gown. She was forced to quickly reassure Geralt that she was fine when the Witcher inquired after her burning cheeks.

Leaving Roach at the inn, they made their way up to the castle. As they walked Jaskier, with her lute strung over her back and jaunty bounce in her step, read the invitation out to Geralt.

“Her Majesty Queen Calanthe does request the presence of the great Bard Jaskier, Julianna Adela Pankratz, Viscountess de Lettenhove—"

“You’re a Viscountess?” snarled the Witcher.

Jaskier looked up at Geralt and sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Geralt, darling I know you are smarter than this. Look at what I’m wearing—what I’ve been wearing since you welcomed me to join you on the road.”

“I didn’t welcome you to join me, you forced me to take you along.”

“That is not the point now, Witcher. Do you think most people wear silks for extended road trips in the middle of nowhere?”

“I thought you just liked pretty things,” grumbled Geralt.

And Jaskier didn’t know what to say to that. The more she considered this argument, the more she realized that perhaps even the most wealthy of nobles would reconsider her various colourful dresses and shoes when faced with months on the road. But damn it, she was not going to debate the importance of colour in one’s wardrobe with Geralt of Riva, a woman who wouldn’t know colour if it snuck up and whacked her on the back of the head. Actually, if colour was a monster, thought Jaskier, rethinking the metaphor, Geralt would be familiar with both its habitat, breeding patterns and modes of defence.

“Geralt, what do you think purple would use in a fight against a silver sword?”

“What,” responded Geralt, stopping midstride to look back at the bard, “the fuck are you going on about now?”

Jaskier waved her hand through the air, dispelling the thought. “Just thinking through some ideas.”

“Well think faster, we’re almost at the gates.”

The gates. Right. The gates of a noble house for her grand debut as a bard playing for a royal family. Now that was an exciting thought.

A moment later her eyes caught an all too familiar coat of arms on one of the departing carriages, and her stomach twisted into knots. That was the sigil of someone who would most definitely have a specific idea of who or what, the wayward Viscountess de Lettenhove should be.

“Geralt,” she said, voice twisting high and tight. “Geralt my sister is here.”

“Breathe bard,” said the Witcher.

“Right. Breathing. Right,” said Jaskier. She hadn’t seen her prissy, stuck up older sister Elmira in years. Of course she would be here the night of Jaskier’s grand debut.

They were ushered quickly through the gates, with a slight delay when Geralt was forced to give up her sword. Jaskier’s loud complaints that she had told the Witcher to leave the sword behind were only met with angry hums.

Inside the wedding fest, Geralt was, to Jaskier’s surprise, almost immediately set upon by an old acquaintance. Waving Geralt off to meet with her friend, Jaskier set out to find her sister. It was best to get this over with as quickly as possible. It did not take long.

“Lovely dress Julianna. So kind of the tailor to offer you a gown from the last decade at such a discounted price.”

“Elmira,” said Jaskier, through gritted teeth.

“Though you don’t really go by Julianna now do you? What was it that mother said? Jaskier—a pitiful little flower. A fine title for a Viscountess. But then, you aren’t really worthy of such a title anymore are you?” Elmira idly examined her fingers.

Jaskier’s hands tightened into fists at her side. She would like nothing more than to tear that expression off Elmira’s smug little face.

“And what are you doing here Elmira? Looking for a new husband? The last one tire of you already?”

Elmira’s lips pursed, her nose shooting into the air. “At least I’m not scrounging for table scraps like some kind of ruffian.”

“My presence was requested here by the queen herself to perform for this assembled company. I can assure you, dear sister, I am far from scrounging for table scraps. My music has bought me fame and renown across the continent. Fame the likes of which you, my sister, with your pathetic mind, cannot even imagine.”

Jaskier felt a presence at her back. It was Geralt, returning to stand as a steadying presence behind her. Elmira did not acknowledge the Witcher, though her next words made it clear she was well aware of who Geralt was.

“You, _Jaskier_ ” Elmira spat the name like it was dirt in her mouth, “have earned nothing. Your renown is merely notoriety from years of association with filthy Witchers.” 

Jaskier snapped. She shot forward and grabbed the front of Elmira’s fine, embroidered gown, raising her fist inches from Elmira’s delicate nose.

“Elmira. If I hear one more word from you insulting the bravest, most noblest woman I have ever known I will smash your bloody face in. I care nothing for you or mother. I have made my own destiny and you can all rot for all I care.”

“Well,” gasped Elmira, when Jaskier released her. “I will pass that message on to Mother.”

Geralt growled then, a low deep sound that send shivering, delightful vibrations down Jaskier’s back. Elmira actually jumped, face flooding with fear.

“Good bye Elmira. I would say it was a pleasure to see you again,” quipped Jaskier. “But that would be a fucking lie.”

Elmira did not run away, but it was a near thing.

“You did not have to say that,” murmured Geralt, bending close to Jaskier’s ear. 

“It was definitely my pleasure,” said Jaskier, turning to let her hands catch in Geralt’s skirts. She raised her chin to meet the Witcher’s eyes. “And every word I said was true.”

They stayed like that for a beat, a brief moment that existed just between the two of them, despite the swirling crowd. 

A quick movement in the corner of her vision caught Jaskier’s attention, pulling her away from her Witcher.

“Shit.”

“What? Your sister?”

“Remember when I said you would need to defend me from pissed off spouses?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Yep, well this is one of the those!”

Hours later they fled the feast. Jaskier’s hair, which she had twisted up in coils and filled with fresh flowers, was now a mess of twisted curls. Geralt’s dress had a large rip up one side, and the Witcher’s face was locked in an expression of shock and disbelief. At least Jaskier’s performance had gone well, up until the arrival of a cursed lover.

“Law of surprise? Really?” Jaskier demanded, waving her hands in the air to punctuate her point as they hurried back to Roach.

“It’s traditional.”

Jaskier raised her eyebrows. Geralt buried her face in her hands.

“Destiny—”

“Yes I know I heard Mousesack, destiny now has me in its grip.”

“No. You didn’t let me finish. Destiny is a fucker and we don’t let it dictate our lives.”

“You know nothing of this.”

“Geralt. I am a woman born into Redanian noble house. I spent half my life under the thumb of people like Emira! Like my mother and their expectations! But I was born to be a bard, and that is the fucking destiny I am manifesting.”

Geralt’s jaw tightened.

“Destiny. Expectations. We can only take what we can and make the most of it. Carve something for ourselves!”

“I’m not you Jaskier!” Geralt stopped, scowling out at the world. “I’m a Witcher. You can bend the world to your will with a smile and song. I am an emotionless creature created for killing. And this is just another sick twist in my fucking life.”

“Geralt—” said Jaskier, her voice breaking. “You can’t believe that.”

“What.” Snarled Geralt.

“You are not a monster. You have emotions.”

“How would you know!” exclaimed Geralt.

“I know because you love me!” shouted Jaskier. She took a shuddering breath and continued, “And I love you.”

Geralt froze. For the second time that night her entire world seemed to tilt off its axis. First the child surprise, and now this. Screaming declarations of love.

“Jaskier—”

“Don’t you dare deny it Witcher,” spat Jaskier. There were tears running down her ruddy cheeks, but she made no move to wipe them away. When she had crafted elaborate plans for finally addressing their emotions, Jaskier had imagined whispering sweet nothings while washing monstrous gunk from Geralt’s hair, or speaking softly while wrapped together in some cozy inn. Never had she imagined she would be standing in the middle of a Cintrian street, chest heaving and tears streaming down her cheeks, having just howled her feelings out for the world to hear, after a particularly wild wedding feast.

She never was any good at doing things quietly.

“Jaskier.”

“I’m right. Tell me I’m right.”

Geralt reached out and took hold of Jaskier’s dress, pulling her closer.

“You’re right” she whispered, golden eyes cast down.

Jaskier set a hand on Geralt’s arm.

“Kiss me.”

Geralt continued to look down.

“Gods-damn it, Geralt. Kiss me.”

Geralt finally looked up. There was fear in her eyes, and shock. But also hope.

Jaskier seized on that hope. Destiny might throw monsters, and child surprises, and death in their way. But there was this hope. There was Geralt’s eyebrow raised in mock disdain. There was singing the praises of the White Wolf to a crowd full of strangers and bringing them to their feet with her song. There was Geralt holding her through her nightmares. Geralt smiling.

Jaskier leaned in, and they met halfway.

It was a messy kiss, wet with tears, and just a little frantic.

But it was theirs. It was a beginning of a bold and brilliant first stanza.

Jaskier couldn’t wait to sing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: gosh Jaskier is such a petty, attention-obsessed bard  
> also me: refreshes my email every two minutes to see if I have any comment notifications 
> 
> Thank you for following along with my take on these two!  
> This was my own equivalent of fleeing academia to follow a witcher around, and I had a lot of fun writing this. There is now a companion piece from Geralt's POV, which has some reflections on beauty, strength, Witchers and general confusion about blushing bards. You can find it [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26005192/chapters/63227770)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the part where I apologize for being very new here and kind of making it up as I go along. I was in the middle of reading a book for my comps list and was seized with a need to write the overdramatic thoughts of Jaskier immediately.


End file.
